


need you to glow

by clytemnestras



Series: fem february 2016 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5945791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he blinks there’s a blowtorch pressing against the small metal thing in her gloved hand and she lights it, smiling, like a fire could be her home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	need you to glow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kwritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/gifts).



> when i started this it was about hands. then it became something about topping from the bottom. then it became whatever this is? anyway, i'm upset.

  1. Nothing means so much as there being nothing seminal about the first time. He’s still finding breath when she rolls off he’s fucked out where she’s cried out, moving on instinct like being too close is the first thing she was beat for. (Or, he thinks, like Octavia at six, too close to the grilltop when one of the guards who didn’t care enough to throw the book down was heating yesterday’s soup and he swung her onto his meaty shoulders, taking her kitten hands in his and held them down on the heat until she bit all the way through her lip. “It hurts, yeah? So you stay away.” Blood down her chin and the white of his vest. Skin on her hand almost burnt away.)



 

She lies back, bare and easy under her splotches. He reaches out, catching her arm on the rough pads of his hands - not soft, healed skin never is - and almost easily she brushes him away. “Hey, let me -”

 

That’s already enough of a mistake. She closes, finds his hand in her own and presses it back to feel the sweat on his chest. “It’s fine.”

 

Since finding the ground, this is his cardinal sin. The girl goes first.  _ Bury your face in her, breathe and swallow until there’s no difference in her gasps and your own drowning, until her thighs have tightened far enough that it’s as good as a fist around your throat. Then you slide in, when she’s loose and slick less with herself and more with you and let her mouth on your chest take precedence. You wear her around like pride. You wear her like insignia in the daylight so everyone can see what it is you are.  _

 

He spreads his fingers. Flex and squeeze. The callouses on her fingers and palms misaligned with his. She abraises his softness, wearing down the delicate parts like sandpaper - or just feeling them out. He’ll take it harder, knowing how easily people start to blister. “Raven”, he says, for no reason other than to tell her he knows who he’s here with. 

 

She rolls closer and he puts it all into the kiss, says  _ next time  _ against her mouth, pressing down on her fingers until it has to hurt. 

  
  


 

  1. Her fingers struggle to reach deep enough. Balmy night feels good on her, feels both heavy and weightless on the light sheen of sweat that tumbles down her body and makes her glow. It's so rare she’s allowed this - the kind of night’s sleep that she can feel all across her skin. Before The Jump (that's her clarifier; The Jump, always, not The Fall or anything so mythic - nothing about her will call back to tragedy)  she would disassemble so carefully, totally free to survey her bare skin and luxuriate in it.



 

It was easier then, to strip down and slide under the sheets, feeling herself in every countermove. Now it's mostly too cold. The ground is unforgiving but it brings her closer to one thing. On the Ark she could never really feel the night on her back, on the ground she’s constantly touched by the cool air, the temperature shifts when clouds burn through, every elemental part of her blossoms under the attention. And now - slipping her hands  _ down down down _ , scratching on the swell of her breast and biting just right, just enough along the soft tops of her thighs, the harsh way her pooling sweat is iced by breeze makes her that touch more present it's hard to remember being alive before it.

 

The shudder slides all the way through her body when she finally pushes inside. Her hands are good, rough in the right way. She’s both solid and fluid, arching up into herself but forcing her movements just that touch harder, faster. Her free hand pinches bruises across any sensitive patch of skin, her breasts peppered with bluish marks anywhere but where she's aching. She's firm, and good, fingers curling up roughly on the drag out, heel curved in to hit her clit on the forward thrust but it's not enough. Not to get where she wants to be. 

 

Baby animals always handled with care. Fragile bones. She draws her nails across her ribcage. Boys, she thinks, are a necessary fantasy and a delicate reality, wasting callouses that could be pinking her skin. Her first time was just the right side of clumsy that he pushed too hard, went too fast and a minute - two - longer could have made a difference. 

 

She arches up harder, hips scraping across the ragged blanket. Thinks of long fingers, frayed skin grating against hers. The way Bellamy touched her, after, fingers all weathered and squeezing down on hers. He pushes down enough with force to solidify himself, to feel bone. 

 

That pressure, splayed out across her hips, her shoulder blades as she slices her nails down corded muscle... _ Fuck _ . She bites down on her bottom lip and swallows her breath down in hard inhales easing herself back into control.

 

She rolls onto her side and the sheets shift around her. Bellamy is a soft hearted thing. He just melts if pressed hard enough, if pressed in the right place. Still, it's fantasy enough to lure her into sleep; something about the relation of ground to sky.

  
  


 

  1. He hides sometimes. When the Deliquents have been cooped up for long enough that their muscles are aching to _do_ and he cannot find a distraction bloody or vigorous enough to hold attention he shucks the General artifice and he ducks into her workshop. 



 

She looks at him pointedly when he steps inside, gaze flickering between the open tent flap and the table he’s resting against. “Lost?”

 

He shakes his head, eyes wide as he can make them, and passes her the wrench behind him on the worktop. Her eyes narrow.

 

“Hm,” she says, giving him a long look of scrutiny that he wants to spread into, show off himself for her. “You can stay.”

 

And that’s that. He sheds his jacket like a skin and lets his mind undo, no longer anything than a stream of consciousness in a body, taking in the world instead of fighting it. 

 

It's easy to watch her. Her fingers move seamlessly, fashioning something - and it could be anything; something about her so organic she digs into deeper levels of creation. Wrench. Twist. Tuck.

 

It’s a time stream. He loses himself in the hypnosis; her skin grey with oil all slick and filthy. There’s something worryingly feminine about it. About her being covered in dirt and grease, about the way her mouth moves in fast little sums like she’s calculating the ratio of heartbeats to stars. Her shoulders are squared and fingers that he  _ remembers  _ being rough and cutting, blunt fingernails and fraying skin are moving around the metal scraps like belonging. 

 

He wakes up, like a stress dream when she’s right in front of him, grinning. “Hey, pretty boy, you wanna feel some sparks?”

 

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

 

Her smile widens and she steps back, pulling goggles down from her forehead. “Duck.”

 

When he blinks there’s a blowtorch pressing against the small metal thing in her gloved hand and she lights it, smiling, like a fire could be her home. 

 

“What are you making?” He’s still blinking away the sudden brightness, can hear but not see her laugh.

 

“Listen, if you wanna stay here, you gotta learn to do what _I_ say, for example, ‘duck’ or ‘pass me the screwdriver.’” She says.

 

He slides his hand along the desk until it bumps something and he grabs it, holding it out to her. 

 

“You’re learning!” His vision flutters back as she comes to kiss the edge of his lips. "If you're lucky I might tell you what it is later."

  
  


 

  1. She takes her hands in his. It’s so easy to lead him - it’s so easy, suddenly to have him waiting for her to give direction. She leads him to the bunk and spreads trails her fingers up into his hair, pushes him down.



 

He’s gorgeously unfurled for her. He looks starving, huge hands already circling her hips. She slides her fingers into her underwear and asks him soundlessly to draw them down and away. He’s on her in seconds. Eyes glazed, fingers quivering. Lost boy all covered in dirt spread out under her like he’s primed for worship. “Not gentle,” she says. “I don’t like it gentle.”

 

Nothing about her is commanding except his eyes flash dark and she can feel that shake in his hands when his fingers tighten, the burst of pain on her hips like little starbursts and she’s that much closer to the sky again.

 

She tugs on his hair, pulls him down to her, like some mythic thing that could fade if she loses his attention. He starts at her knee, kisses the inside, the long line of her thighs; alternating between each leg in wickedly quick presses of his mouth. She’s aching when he finally reaches her, and it’s like penance when he brings his mouth down. His hands move to her thighs to hold her open for his mouth, keep her still whilst he makes a meal of her. 

She twists her fingers into his hair and scrapes at his skull. “Come on, harder.” 

 

His teeth scrape her clit and his nails find her bruises again and fuck, it feels like heaven. She arches up into him, hips grinding. The harder he pushes the closer to separating she feels; her body hungry to scatter into the ether. “That’s good, you’re so good, come on.”

 

He pulls one hand away from her thighs and spreads the other across her hips, holding her down. “This okay?”

 

She tightens her fingers in his hair, pulls twice to make him nod for her. He slides three fingers inside her without warning and scrapes his teeth again and Raven falls apart for him, body arched like a bird toward sky. He blinks up at her, holding and pushing equally; her insides fluttering, his body heat like fire all across her skin and she says “don’t stop.”

  
Her hands are slick with sweat and when she loses purchase in his hair he comes up to kiss her,  mouth wet with her taste. He inhales when she smiles, guiding him backwards onto the sheets and presses her mouth to the skin of his neck. A slow bite and a quick suck and he’s marked up enough for her to feel safe, but she won’t stop, not until all the miles of his skin are that same purple-red.

 

She hardly hears her forged candlestick roll onto his floor.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me on tumblr [@bohemicns](https://) if you feel so inclined


End file.
